


You Are Here

by Nympha_Alba



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aging Backwards, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Old Merlin - Freeform, Referenced Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-18 08:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nympha_Alba/pseuds/Nympha_Alba
Summary: The rain is pouring down as Merlin travels back to London after yet another visit to the fields that were once the Lake of Avalon. When he disembarks, the fragrance of coffee draws him to the tiny café on the platform. Well, Merlin thinks as he hoists his duffel bag up on his shoulder, when he does find Arthur, at least it won't be in a waiting-room café at a train station.





	You Are Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Camelittle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Wish You Were Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392913) by [Camelittle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle). 



> I flailed a bit (in a good way) when I saw you were my remixee, Camelittle! You have so many great stories to choose from, but I fell for _Wish You Were Here_ with its hilariously irritating Merlin and its T.H. White twist. A million thanks to my beta M and to the mods!  
>  (A lot of dialogue is re-used from Camelittle's original story.)

It's been a thousand years.

A thousand years of waiting, longing, searching, and waiting some more. They creak in his joints and ache in his bones.

Merlin hasn't given up - he wouldn't - but now and then, he's close. He doesn't strictly need to stay in his old man form, his Dragoon the Great form, but he's stayed in it for, oh, the past sixty years. It fits his general state of mind. And it reflects the truth, he supposes, because he _is_ ancient. 

No one bothers much about him. Old people, apparently, aren't interesting or anything to reckon with. No one cares much what he says or does as long as he doesn't make a nuisance of himself.

Merlin quite enjoys making a nuisance of himself. He enjoys using seventy-eight different coupons at the supermarket at rush hour, with a long line of sighing parents behind him at the till, wanting to get home and make dinner. (He feels a twinge of conscience at the thought of hungry kids waiting to get fed, but it passes quickly.) Trying young people's patience by pretending not to understand how something works, making them explain it again, slowly, is also fun. Some are very good about it. Others are flushed and embarrassed but soldier on. Some get impatient and talk unnecessary loudly but only very few actually tell him to stuff it or get the hell out. Another long-time favourite is swaying and moving his lips in sync with the music in his head when he's on the tube or at the bus stop. It has the advantage of giving him more personal space.

These are tiny things that provide a moment's release from the sorrow in Merlin's life, from the emptiness and pain that is Arthur's absence.

Merlin visits the Lake of Avalon until it's no longer a lake but fields of grass, and then he visits the fields, staring across them to the tower on the hill. He wonders what Arthur's return will look like - _if_ he returns. Will he come back in pomp and state, or will he return as an ordinary man? (As if Arthur could ever be ordinary.) Will it be a palace or a council estate?

The rain is pouring down as he travels back to London after yet another visit to the fields that were once the Lake of Avalon. When he disembarks, the warm, wonderful fragrance of coffee draws him to the tiny cafe on the platform. Well, Merlin thinks as he hoists his duffel bag up at a better angle on his aching shoulder, when he does find Arthur, at least it won't be in a waiting-room café at a train station.

He peers past the barista at the coffee menu on the wall behind the bar. Dear Lord, the prices! The prices these days!

A group of loud teenagers have followed him inside, shuffling and shoving behind him. "Oi! Wait for us, Dumbledore!" Raucous laughter erupts.

Such wit.

The barista has clearly encountered these bright young things before. "Right, you lot. Get out." He pushes up the countertop and steps out. Merlin nods to himself, pleased. It's nice to know there are still young people willing to defend the old. Not that Merlin needs it - he could blast the whole bunch to Madagascar - but the barista doesn't know that. "And stop bothering this poor old man."

"Hey!" Merlin says. "Less of the old!" It's a very private joke and not a very funny one - being a thousand years old isn't a joke at all. He walks over to a table and sits down, huffing. His Dragoon the Great feet are killing him. To amuse himself, he spouts a stream of muttered, grumpy abuse towards the Harry Potter books: "Dumble-wotsit, eh? Is it? Is it? That imposter. Him and his bloody wand." And towards youth in general: "Bloody kids, these days. No respect for their betters…" Merlin secretly loves the Harry Potter books, and kids these days are no worse than kids of any era. He's beginning to enjoy himself. "Wands! I ask you! Phallic nonsense."

Behind him, the barista is tiredly trying to get the rude teenagers to behave, or preferably leave. When a female voice enters the conversation, Merlin begins to actually listen while his mouth runs on auto-pilot. (He's an accomplished grumper.) There's something about the quality of these voices… about the combination of them...

Merlin turns around to look.

They've made the nasty Dumbledore teen apologise, but the sullen, unapologetic apology sails right over Merlin's head as he feels the colour drain from his face. The kid is the spitting image of Mordred. 

Merlin is wrong. He must be wrong. It's _Arthur_ who is supposed to return, and not… not…

"Sorry about that," the barista says, and he has Arthur's voice. It's less imperious than it used to be but has the same timbre, the same warmth.

Merlin's hands are unsteady as he stares at the barista with a kind of desperate hunger that he despises. How many times has he done this? How many times has he held his breath and stared hopefully at a blond man who might be Arthur but is someone else when he turns around? This man, though - this man is Arthur from every angle.

"You!" Merlin lifts a shaky, old man's finger and points at Arthur. "It's…" The words catch in his throat, because the woman behind the counter is… she is… "And you! You're… Good Lord!"

His throat is scratchy and his eyes burn with sudden tears. _Arthur_. Arthur and Gwen! They're here with him - here, of all places on earth! A tiny café at a train station.

Trembling, Merlin presses his palms against his damp coat. He has no idea what to do next, except pinch himself to be sure he isn't sleeping and dreaming this sweet, strange dream.

"Can I get you anything hot to drink?" Arthur asks.

It's real. It's real. It must be real. In Merlin's dreams, Arthur would never ask anything so trivial.

Merlin takes a breath and tries to get himself together. Hot chocolate would be good - hot chocolate for shock. And for Dementors.

The chocolate is three pounds and he's forgotten to magic himself some cash from the ATM machine, but Gwen, still as kind as ever, tells him it's on the house.

Merlin slowly drinks his chocolate (which is very good) and stares at Arthur and Gwen (who are beautiful and unfathomable). For show, he keeps muttering to himself about horrendous prices and Gandalf and Dumbledore while surreptitiously blinking tears from his eyes. 

Customers come and go, Arthur is busy, and Merlin tries to be a little less obvious about staring at him. Arthur still seems to sense he's being watched and glances over from time to time. Merlin quickly looks away.

At closing time they gently usher him out, and his muttering and grumbling turns more genuine. He doesn't want to leave this cafe ever again. What he wants to do is attach himself to Arthur's shirt like a hysterical cat and refuse to let go.

 

***

Merlin sleeps at a homeless shelter that night. Through the years he has stayed in a million different places but never owned a home. No place ever felt as much like home as Camelot.

When he first arrived in London, many years ago, he mostly slept rough. It was a lot less rough for him than for other people. He could wrap himself in spells and be warm, waterproofed and safe. Around him, he saw suffering.

Which was why Merlin founded his homeless shelters, financed them with magicked money and handpicked reliable people to run them. His staff believe him to be an eccentric old millionaire - not too far from the truth, after all.

He's proud of his shelters. At least he's done something real for other people.

Tonight Merlin lies in his narrow bed and listens to snores from the other beds and to the soft murmur of the night staff on a tea break. In the dark, he thinks about Arthur and lets his tears run freely until his hair is damp. It's a strange jumble of emotions, but the strongest one is relief. The prophecy proved true. Arthur has returned.

Merlin just isn't sure how to get reacquainted.

***

Every day, he returns to the train station. Heart thumping, he stands outside the waiting-room café watching Arthur through glass (there's a metaphor there). And every day there's the heady rush of relief at having it confirmed: it really is Arthur. He really is here.

One morning at the shelter, Merlin stops with the toothbrush halfway to his mouth to stare at himself in the bathroom mirror. Something about him has changed, but it takes him a moment to realise what it is: his white hair and beard are streaked with black.

Slowly, he straightens his back and feels his body, really _feels_ it. He meets his own eyes in the mirror and a slow smile spreads over his face. So that's what this light feeling is: he's getting younger.

He's aging backwards.

***

This de-aging process is a marvellous thing. It stops Merlin's joints creaking and his bones aching; it makes his eyes clear and puts colour in his cheeks. If he could patent it he'd be the wealthiest man on earth.

Merlin decides he needs a new look to match his new self. He gets his hair cut and his beard trimmed, and buys new clothes. The shelter staff smile at him, pleased. Now he truly looks the part they've ascribed to him - not a half-crazy old man in rags any more, but eccentric and well-to-do.

He can't wait another minute. He needs to see Arthur again.

***

The café is nearly empty when Merlin enters. With a biro between his teeth, Arthur is crouched behind the counter handling spent coffee grounds. 

Merlin says to the top of Arthur's blond head: "Hope your coffee tastes better than it smells." 

Arthur looks up, their eyes meet, and Merlin's heart pounds like the trains on their rails. 

Without missing a beat, Arthur says around the biro: "Well, I hope you're less rude than you sound."

Merlin laughs, delighted. "Touché!"

He can't get enough of Arthur's face. It's kinder than before, more sensitive. Not that the Arthur of old was unkind - there was just no premium on kindness. Perhaps there still isn't. 

Merlin sees something else as well: Arthur's eyes are filled with sadness, painful and deep.

Stifling an impulse to reach out and touch Arthur's hand, Merlin orders a cappuccino.

"Coming right up, Mr…?"

Merlin blinks. "Oh." It's not time for the big reveal yet. He watches Arthur watch him think. "Um. Er. Just… just call me M."

"Oh?"

It still amuses him to be an annoying old man. "Not O, M! Get it?" He laughs loudly at his own joke.

It's a good test, this - his borderline rudeness, his stupid jokes. Arthur's doing well, though, giving back as good as he gets.

"Are you always this irritating, or is it just a front to hide your secret persona?" Arthur asks after a few back-and-forths, but he does so with a smile as he foams the milk for Merlin's cappuccino.

His smile is knee-weakening. 

"Just part of my charm," Merlin says. It's been a very long time since charm was a thing he possessed. It's also been a devastatingly long time since he last bantered with Arthur. Arthur obviously has no idea how many times he's said similar things to Merlin.

Merlin stays in the cafe all afternoon, renewing his order a couple of times and ingesting far too much caffeine, but it's a small price to pay for being close to Arthur. Arthur looks over now and then, catching Merlin staring because he makes no effort to hide it.

When Arthur has turned over the OPEN sign for the day, he comes over to Merlin's table. "We're closing. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to boot you out. But look. Do you mind if I ask… why do you keep staring at me?"

_Because your face has been imprinted in my mind for the past thousand years. Because I realised too late how much I really loved you. Because you're you and I'd have known you anywhere._

"You remind me of someone," Merlin replies at long last. He looks out of the window and sighs. "Someone I knew a long time ago."

_Someone who knew me better than anyone. Someone I should have told the truth long before I did. Someone I should have trusted to know his own mind._

He gets up from his chair and meets Arthur's eyes. The sadness in them nearly floors him.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he says.

Arthur flinches. "What? How did you - ?"

Gently, Merlin replies: "It's in your eyes."

He feels Arthur's gaze on his back as he leaves. _Not yet. Not yet. I can't tell you yet._ Most conveniently, a freight train comes thundering past. Merlin seizes the opportunity to literally vanish from the platform.

***

In retrospect, it's beyond comprehension that Merlin didn't sense Arthur's presence the first moment he walked into that café, not even when he stood at the counter peering past Arthur up at the menu. It's like he hadn't tuned into the correct frequency yet. Arthur's frequency.

He has now. He can't hear Arthur's thoughts, exactly - they're muffled and fuzzy, a murmur from which he can't distinguish any words - but he does hear the music playing in Arthur's head. It's Pink Floyd, he knows that much. _Wish you were here._

Sadly, it's not about Merlin.

 

***

 

Merlin amuses himself at the supermarket by paying for a bag of apples with pennies, a great many pennies; counting them slowly, losing count and starting over again. The girl at the till turns red but doesn't say anything. Leaving the store at long last, Merlin can barely suppress a grin.

Soon he'll be too young to get away with this doddery old fool stuff. And good riddance. He's had enough of Dragoon the Great.

***

Merlin is tuned into Arthur's frequency now. He could find him anywhere.

Arthur's frequency says SADNESS and leads Merlin to a coffee shop in town where Arthur sits poking at a dry, crumbly slice of carrot cake.

"Mind if I join you?"

Arthur looks up, swallowing tears. He looks so dejected Merlin reaches out impulsively and covers Arthur's hand with his own. The touch travels through him like a tremor, bringing tears to his own eyes. It's been so long, so unfathomably long.

He offers Arthur some words of comfort, unable to speak above a whisper. When Arthur doesn't respond, Merlin adds: "You obviously don't want company. I'll leave you in peace."

Arthur lifts his head, his eyes still brimming with tears. "No, don't go. Please."

"All right, if that's what you want." Merlin slides back into his chair and proceeds to eat his chocolate cake. He can be a prosaic old man at times, as well as an irritating one.

To his surprise, Arthur opens up a little. He tells Merlin about his father, who sounds like a very different and much better Uther Pendragon than the king of old. An Uther Pendragon who not only loves his son but tells him so, shows him so, and when Ygraine dies, pronounces them Team Pendragon.

"Damn you," Arthur says, "for being so fucking understanding. I'm trying to wallow in self-pity here, and you're spoiling it."

"It's not self-pity, Arthur. It's grief." And if there's anything in this world Merlin knows, it's grief. He's a fucking expert. It's beyond strange, sitting here talking about his grief with the object of it, but surprisingly cathartic. "Sometimes it goes away for a second, and then it comes back, ten times worse, and makes you feel like you're drowning. It presses you and pushes at you, and… and makes you want to scream and yell at the unfairness of it all, of the one person who meant everything being taken away, ripped so cruelly from you, and you look for someone to blame, someone to gouge and hack until they hurt as much as you do, but there isn't anyone, and then…" _Stop it, Merlin. Stop it. Don't take it out on Arthur. He didn't leave you by choice, and you're slipping out of character. Get yourself together._ "Fuck, I'm sorry, Arthur. I got carried away. Look, it's normal, and it never really leaves you, but you manage it, after a while."

_Because you don't have much of a choice._

He's aware of Arthur eyeing him curiously. There is no recognition in Arthur's eyes - not yet - but there's _something_. A wish to know more. 

"Who are you, really?" Arthur asks, looking mildly surprised at the question as if he hadn't meant to ask it out loud. "Why are you here? What does M stand for anyway? And how old are you, really?"

_Go on, then. Go ahead and ask me a few more I can't or won't answer._

"I've always had a fondness for nosy nincompoops and prying prats," says Merlin. Rudeness has its uses. Sometimes, insulting people makes them stop asking uncomfortable questions.

But maybe, maybe, Merlin shouldn't stop Arthur from asking questions. Maybe he should try to answer some of them.

He can feel himself getting younger even as they're sitting here. As if Arthur's gaze on him, Arthur's interest in him, speeds up the process. And Merlin is so done with it all. So done with waiting, with being mysterious, with no one knowing who he is.

"Bit of a busman's holiday for you, isn't it, in here?" Merlin nods towards the coffee machines.

"Now who's being a nosy nincompoop? At least I've got a job!"

"Hah, a job!" Merlin waves that away. His magic is tingling in his fingertips, making itself known. Use me, it says. Use me. It's time. "A man of my age and talents has no need of such things."

In a strange way, he's enjoying himself. Boasting in front of Arthur. Having the upper hand. It helps him forget the fact that his heart is full to bursting point. A thousand years hasn't made his love for Arthur wane. He only pushed it aside so as not to die from it while Arthur was gone, and now that Arthur is here it's erupting like lava.

"And what sort of talents might they be?"

Merlin winks at Arthur. "Magic."

Arthur's disappointment is obvious. "Oh, for…" he groans. "Spiritualism is nothing but a big con."

"You misunderstand," says Merlin quietly. He doesn't want this to be an echo of the past. "I'm not a spiritualist. I'm a warlock." Saying that word out loud sends a thrill through him. It makes him feel powerful. His magic likes it, too. "Sit. Watch."

Arthur sits back and does as he's told (when did he ever do that?), watching Merlin's fingers in fascination.

" _Upastige draca!_ " The small, golden dragon that appears on Merlin's palm is as beautiful as any he's ever created, and he smiles down at it with pride.

Arthur gasps and leans forward, half reaching out to touch it. "What? How did you - ?"

Merlin clicks his fingers and the dragon is gone. He sits back in his chair. "I told you." He's aware he looks smug. "Magic."

"So… you're a conjuror, then?" Arthur looks completely bewildered.

" _Conjuror?_ " Merlin only half pretends his indignation. "I bring you elemental magic, born of the earth itself, and you call me a bloody conjuror? I'm not Paul bloody Daniels, you know, may he rest in peace. Or, or… whatsisname, that charlatan, oh God I hate him, it's on the tip of my tongue, Paul wossname, why do they all have to be called Paul? McThingummybobby. Huh. Total poltroon."

"Are you sure you're not thinking of Derren Brown?"

Merlin's indignation is real now. He's spluttering. Sixty consecutive years as Dragoon the Great with a daily dose of stream-of-consciousness complaining and abuse can't be shrugged off in an instance. Before he can stop himself, he's called Paul McKenna a pox-ridden, pustulent impostor and Derren Brown a scrofulous, double-crossing dung-beetle. Venting his frustration feels good. There's a reason why Dragoon the Great has always been so obnoxious. "Impudent, impecunious, tricksy toe-rag!"

Through his mutterings he becomes aware that Arthur is trying to get his attention, rather urgently. "M!"

They're surrounded by a swirling cloud of multi-coloured motes. "Oops." Merlin clicks his fingers and the cloud disappears. "Sorry. It's my magic. It likes you, you see."

"Me?" Arthur seems genuinely surprised. "Why me?"

"Because," Merlin says, reaching out again to cover Arthur's hand with his own. "You're not just the remaining half of Team Pendragon. You're so much more than that."

Arthur blinks, bewildered. "I don't understand."

Merlin is rushing it, he knows that. He is so tired of waiting, but he needs to stop. He releases Arthur's hand and leans back, taking a breath. "No, you don't. Not yet."

Arthur stares at him, fighting to understand, fighting to make sense of his own thoughts and glimpses of memories. Merlin senses the chaos in his head. Arthur is on the brink of remembering, but it's dangerous to urge him on too much or too quickly. He could go mad.

Patience is so fucking hard. 

Merlin looks at Arthur with tenderness. "Not yet."

 

***

 

This de-aging thing is… invigorating.

If it wasn't for the clamour of Arthur's grief in Merlin's head, he'd enjoy himself.

It's driving him insane, listening to Arthur's sadness without being able to help. He doesn't know how much longer he can stand it. He doesn't know how much longer he can wait.

 

***

 

This time, Arthur's thoughts are not just a murmur in Merlin's head: they come through loud and clear. Arthur is standing on a bridge looking down into a river, imagining himself floating face down in the water. Relishing the thought. Seriously considering the possibility.

Merlin isn't going to risk him acting on it. His magic transports him to Arthur's side in half a second.

Arthur is leaning on the parapet with his eyes closed, and Merlin edges up to him until their elbows touch.

"You seem hell-bent on finding me whenever I'm in a mood," Arthur says, and Merlin swallows his heartbeat. Arthur knew it was Merlin before he even opened his eyes.

They're getting there. Perhaps it's time.

"I lost y- someone once before, by being careless and not paying attention," says Merlin softly. "I don't want that to happen again." 

Arthur is staring at him now, still not with recognition, not quite. It's raining and Merlin conjures up an umbrella with a warming spell underneath it, nice and toasty. He begins to walk and Arthur follows.

"Where are we going? How are you doing that?"

"Questions, questions. So many questions." Merlin's heart hasn't slowed down yet. It's time to show Arthur what this is all about, and it makes him twitchy with nerves and anticipation. "I want to show you something. And once you've seen it, many things will become clear, others less so."

Arthur calls Merlin Houdini, Dynamo and Uri Geller in turn. Seeing Arthur feel well enough for banter gives Merlin joy.

On the top of the hill, Merlin stops. The rain is coming down in torrents, drumming on the charmed umbrella. Merlin lets go of the umbrella and it stays above them on its own accord while he murmurs a string of ancient spells. The words fit so well in his mouth, sweet as honey as they roll off his tongue. 

The rain and mist around them clears. The power station and tower blocks on the skyline are gone, replaced by woodlands and hills and a gleaming white citadel...

Tears ache in Merlin's throat. Oh, how he's missed it. Oh, how he's missed Arthur. 

_Wish you were here._

Everything is bright and clear, fragrant and fresh, sparkling with joy.

Beside him Arthur inhales deeply, filling his lungs with air as it was long before the industrial revolution, before these decades, centuries of pollution.

"Well, clotpole?" says Merlin gently. "Do you remember?"

In his head he hears the noise of memories rushing through Arthur's mind. He watches recognition wake in Arthur's eyes like a spark igniting a fire. 

"Merlin," Arthur gasps, and tears well up in Merlin's eyes at his name on Arthur's lips. "Merlin!"

Something stills inside Merlin, slides softly into place and stops humming. His body is quiet. The process is complete. He has left Dragoon the Great behind and is Merlin again, Merlin as he was back then. The real Merlin. Arthur's Merlin.

"Yes. It's me. I'm here."

And he is in Arthur's arms, pressed so close to Arthur's chest they can hear each other's heartbeat. Holding each other as if they're drowning.

The visions fade, the rain returns, and Arthur's knees are buckling. Merlin catches him and holds him up, like he always will.

"It's all gone," Arthur groans. "All of it."

Their faces are wet with tears and rain.

"I'm so sorry I had to do that to you," Merlin whispers. "I wish it could have been different, I really do. I'm so sorry."

It's an apology for everything that went wrong back then and an apology for the pain and confusion now. It's a fervent wish to put everything right between them.

They're both sobbing, clinging to each other, wet through. Merlin's magical umbrella has collapsed in the mud.

"Look at us," Arthur says. He laughs a little at the absurdity of the situation. "We're a right pair, aren't we? You'd better come back to mine."

Merlin isn't going to object to that.

The shock is wearing off and they're trudging through the mud, bickering and bantering just like old times, shooting words like "peasant" and "princely prat" at each other and trying to race one another, slipping and sliding and falling, and suddenly locked in a kiss.

Rain is pouring down over them but Arthur's mouth is hot and it's so right, so absolutely right. This kiss has been so long in the making. No kiss in the world has waited longer to happen - and it's not even hyperbole.

Merlin is shaking with need, bunching up Arthur's sopping wet shirt in his fists, hearing himself say "oh God, Arthur, please, please". When there's a crack of thunder, he isn't sure if it's meteorology or magic.

"Hey," Arthur says. "I think we need to dry off."

And even if Merlin doesn't want to stop what they're doing, his protests are only token ones, because he knows Arthur is right.

***

Later, they're warm and snug in Arthur's bed, no longer wet but a bit sticky. Merlin's head is on Arthur's arm and Arthur is drowsily stroking the only part of Merlin he can reach with his arm trapped - Merlin's shoulder: "What are you thinking?"

Merlin smiles, opening his eyes a fraction and leaning up to kiss the only part of Arthur he can reach without moving too much - Arthur's chin: "Something not very complicated. No, I mean, it's extremely complicated, but I'm thinking in monosyllables because it's all I can muster right now."

"Oh? And what is that?"

Merlin lies back down on Arthur's arm. "You are here."

There's a moment of silence while Arthur ponders this, before he replies with satisfaction: "Yes. Yes, I am. And so are you."

They laugh a little at this profound statement.

The grey light from between the curtains wanders around the room and fades into darkness, and still they don't leave the bed. If Merlin thinks anything at all, it's how happy he is, and that he doesn't want to leave this room, this bed, this man, for a very long time indeed.

Whatever a very long time is, compared to other very long times. Whatever the concept of time is, or was, or means. 

The only thing that means anything to Merlin right now, right this moment, is this:

_You are here._

_And I'm here with you._


End file.
